Digital Album

Streaming + Download

€9EUR

Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

Comes in a lovely gatefold card case, with artwork by Val Denham. A set of 3 exclusive Black Sun Productions postcards signed by Massimo & Pierce will ship with this order.
Includes unlimited streaming of Hotel Oriente
via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.

about

This is not Amsterdam. This is not New York. Neither Brest, nor Naples. This is not what you think it will be. This is not even you and me. This is not even a place. There is a port, ships, sailors, a red autopsy-like sunset. Bloody and fake as the veins pumping weaker under your brain. A velvet curtain opens, close your eyes and do not think about what you’re going to witness. You’ll never know. You’re not even close.

[The Man enters, his hand on the crotch]
[The Boy enters, he spits on the ground]

This is not about you.
You’re not even there.

credits

released November 23, 2015

OECD 222

Performed and produced by Massimo & Pierce
Lyrics by Marco Simonelli
Mastered by Reto Mäder
Cover Artwork by Val Denahm

They come ashore. With a pack swollen with beer and catastrophe
they stagger. Arms around shoulders
they fall. On their knees. They lean over. Head between legs.
They kiss. But only if they really are drunk.
They smuggle. There’s a lady-boy who sells cigarettes in the square.
And they smoke. Talking about their scars they tell their stories. Of
sugar, cement. Sorrow. They’re hungry and eat.
The waiters find them attractive. They commit suicide for them.
They sleep: eating moons. In a fit of delirium tremens
they dream. To be alive. A shag. They shag their ass and leave.
To another shaggy chest. They shag each other, pretending.
They were looking somewhere else. Someone else. Not you.

At dinner, latish, the theater: revolting. As though
rubbing your finger around the edge of the glass, the red,
the wine evaporates. The afa, the asphalt. There was a stifling
air attached to the hinges,a wet weight, body on body, it was
to suffocate. Velvet curtain: the black of linen sweated
until it loosened the tie-knot, freed the sternum
by at least two buttons, unwittingly had pulled
the grey hair off the chest, forty summers or springs;
the scene closed, badly acted, without a happy ending.
Hunger on the red carpet: then three stairs, the smell of
burnt, mouth watering. But it was the lamb, a filament
between canine and incisor. He’d left the restaurant with a
toothpick in his mouth.

From the womb to here: it’s always been escaping. Cargo of bodies,
no one, night, in the Mediterranean and the sirocco of
waves or calm in international waters. Hidden;
and no one knows, as if it never happened. Land. A
sighting. That undershirt and the white of the eyes.
Armpit smell, naked shoulders. Around, down his hips.
Underneath, nothing. His sex. Wind on his scrotum sack,
cum on the metal of the buttons. Like
marking the territory, an adolescence full of cramps. Of bites.
Urgent need for money, meat, nicotine. Urgent. The bladder
an excess of liquids.

It’s liberating. You stare at the wall while pissing.
The whole body. Submerging. The place. With glandular
scent. You smell yourself through red wine. Phosphorescent.
A stream. On the wall. You’re so drunk you couldn’t even hit the target.
Maybe. You’d like that. He’s coming now. To be seen. Maybe. You don’t realize. You’d hoped so.

Like it didn’t exist. Like it was enough
to smell a sharp scent, wild, wood. Out
of the corner of your eye, your tail between
your legs. Then the flow slows. Dripping.
But the other doesn’t hold back. It’s always the most
protected part of the body. He admitted staring at it.
Neon light. All of a sudden. Like noticing
a gas leak. Maybe he hoped for that.
A hit of spit. Then the mouth is
the whole Mediterranean beyond the Sahara
and you want to dive in.

Two fingers and lips like whistling. Breathing,
like begging. Like he knew. Impossible things,
how to deny it. As if it was easy to forget.
Night. That tore his jeans and not because it was the fashion.
More like a radar laser. Of prey hunting.
That kicks. The rest of the port that rests here,
the way to the doorway. That they come out of. And they smoke while
the night trembles and doesn’t tell. It lights up. The flame
made his skin pinkish. He stayed. The glare
in his pupil, those pupils. Then confused like milk,
breathing it in together. The first mouthful. Of pulmonary
night.

In the rearview mirror like a camera I saw them; I saw the night
come out the streetlamps marching a platoon the crowd that always,
the street moving is like a series of glares in a tunnel
but it’s like they had rose thorns between their teeth
and when Lupita not so young in her robe waves her fan again
it means a load is coming and one is lost and the one
who finds it can only keep his mouth shut can’t talk
Lupita marks the entrance to the port
at night like a crazy lighthouse the cliff is immense
whisky you knock back shutting up the voice inside your brain
the gull is a bird that catches the fish on the water’s
skin there are boys playing football and a chorus of girls running after
the ball with curly hair like diego armando’s
if they break the glass with a crowbar the skinhead will kill them
but I understood from the guys’ pupils, they went straight on
I saw so many people pointing to them they know what they’re doing,
they’re going there – but they seem fake, two painted saints, and I went to the bar and had a coffee, I didn’t say a word, it was like
I knew it.

The century was ready for resetting when she was left
alone. Ships arrived. Two wars. Soldiers, sailors.
A foreign legion of locusts. Widow. Matron.
The servants went off with the stable boys.
Carriages passed by, then looters. The girls changed
every fortnight. The daughter at boarding school:
a safe Switzerland. The flayed plaster had seen
an affluence of tourists passing through, shooting
dice in the café. There the Man and the Boy
could be in peace.

Every once in a while. Only with a full moon. When
there were eclipses. After a shipwreck off the shore. They say.
It still happens sometimes. Others deny it.
The woman who smokes has black hair, dyed. Varicose
veins. An enormous bust and a sleeveless
bathrobe. She doesn’t even glance at them. She’s seen
them before. Knows it all. But she won’t talk. She won’t say
anything. About burn-marks on the carpet. About traces
left on the sheets. About how they looked at one another.

The port entering, the window open, the door stopped.
Walls undress. Stairways of darkness are forgotten.
A table. Chair. Wardrobe. Forget: that side, profile
of face, it is heat that burns with blackened sun, thin
film that imprints the plate, body contour. And honking, bicycle
chains, engines, signs of mooring by night, bullets,
and other noises of dry eyelids. You’ll read about it in the papers.
A pipe ran horizontally across the wall from behind the sink,
the mirror. It passed in front of the bed-head.

At midnight the black sun burns, desire scorches the tips of the fingers, of the lips – atomic
radiation from the skin’s pores – will be transformed into someone else, while all around
the port is a fan-breeze, heat of breathless breathing outside the window, with the red light
panting off and on, in the shadow; jolts that project two bodies bestial in the flesh.

The muscles in stable, perpendicular equilibrium.
Undoing every button of the shirt: an entire earthquake,
a crevice opens up on his chest while they sweat,
feet and hands and armpits,
and follow the trail with an instinct for heat:
they scrutinize the night becoming someone else, something else
Smell of hormones, urine and sweat, spit of hair on neck
and breastbone, the body’s shoulder in heat to the body’s heat:
may the nocturnal body’s flesh melt, may
the boiling blood be calmed, the fever lowered, may it flake
away. The heaven of stars distant and frozen
tremors panting a cry of orgasm pressing down a floodtide.

When on the bed he sat down. The night grew thinner, its crossbars
were weak fuses within fear. Fear grows thinner.
It will redeem criminality from the face. Two prisoners in the cell.
And what I am worth you will discover tomorrow. If tomorrow happens.
If it is possible for it to happen.

This is my body: take of it and eat.
These my teeth: traces on buttocks.
A body extraneous in an extraneous body.
A nail piercing the palms of hands.
Another line is added, is crossed.
It is a swap, a moulting. Sweat, new scales.
Like god poking his cock into the sun to fuck the earth.
A stellar sperm falls from space, stones in the sea.
Two statues of salt. This is my blood:
cupbearer, sate your thirst. This is my sperm:
they shed it for us and for all in remission of pleasure.
Forgive. Forgive us our throbs as we forgive
our harrowed heart. In truth it is a thing good
and rotted, you who transubstantiates me,
I who have transubstantiated you.

I’ll come back and find you in the details, the ones you can’t
forget. We’ll meet in every single obsession.
From now on, every orifice. I’ll be late. I’d completely
forgotten. Out of mind. Each
time I am young, I’ll think of you. Each time
I bleed to death I’ll remember your lips. Each tongue
I pass my tongue over will be a close and unknown night.
If they come back from the sea. If the sea rises. If they find the bodies.